Red Hot Ice

By Frank Kane

A case of corpses.
They piled up so fast that private eye Johnny Liddell figured he was ahead if he found them while they were still warm.

It started when he was hired as a baby-sitter to a wildcat. She was blonde and beautiful, and stacked better than a deck of marked cards. And she had a cool $200,000 worth of hot diamonds.

There was just one hitch. She used bourbon instead of perfume.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Release date: Feb 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781440540332

Frank Kane

Frank Kane (1912–1968) was the author of the Johnny Liddell mystery series, including Dead Weight, Trigger Mortis, Poisons Unknown, and many more. 

Book preview

1.

The big DC-4 taxied gracefully into position on a side runway.

A group of formally dressed people, chattering cheerfully, headed for the landing ramp. As they flashed their landing passes for the smartly uniformed hostess, she checked the pass against a typewritten list and smiled them aboard. Inside the plane, the passengers were welcomed by a tall man in a tuxedo. He greeted each arrival by name and assigned them all to seats.

Muggsy Kiely, of the Dispatch, stepped into the plane and looked around. The man in the tuxedo permitted a brief frown to mar the placidity of his forehead as he recognized her. It was quickly washed away by a smile as he extended his hand.

Hello, Miss Kiely. I hope it’s a pleasure trip. Lou Dongan’s voice was soft, suave, and showed signs of a determined attempt at culture. His graying hair was thick, wavy; he affected a thin, contrastingly dark mustache. When he smiled, dimples plowed white furrows in the mahogany tan of his cheeks. We’re not looking for any publicity, you know.

Muggsy grinned. Just a tourist, Lou. I heard about your new enterprise, and I wangled me an invitation. It sounded like a new kick, and I wanted to see firsthand.

Dongan led the redheaded reporter to a seat behind the wing and hovered over her while she settled down. Real top-drawer crowd, isn’t it, Miss Kiely? He looked around approv ngly. It really draws.

The redhead studied her fellow passengers but failed to be impressed. What time do we take off?

Dongan checked the watch on his wrist. Shouldn’t be long now. His eyes jumped from seat to seat. Looks like there’s just about one more earful due.

Muggsy turned, looking out the small window at her side. This is probably it now.

Dongan bent over, peering through the window. Suddenly he growled softly under his breath, snapped his finger. A uniformed stewardess materialized at his elbow. She was pert and blonde. The uniform coat seemed to be having difficulty containing her figure.

Who O.K.’d Laury Lane, Midge? Dongan jabbed a manicured finger in the direction of a tall blonde heading for the plane.

I don’t know, Mr. Dongan. The stewardess tugged a typewritten list from her breast pocket, studied it. I don’t see her name on the list. Should I tell Doris to keep her off?

Dongan lifted the list from between the girl’s fingers, ran his index finger down its length, underscored a name with his nail. No. She’s with Al Murphy. He handed back the list. Pass the word along we don’t want any more of these ‘… and party’ reservations. I want to know the name of everybody coming aboard in advance.

The stewardess nodded and withdrew.

Muggsy studied the blonde as she approached the ramp. You really do rate, Lou. Laury Lane, first lady of the stage, no less.

I need her like a hole in the head, the white-haired man growled. That dame’s strictly poison. He yanked a cigar from his breast pocket, bit off the end, and spat it in the aisle. She’s been trying to drink herself to death ever since that gigolo she’s married to walked out on her. Always manages to get herself lushed up and starts trouble. He chewed morosely on the cigar, while watching the blonde and her party come aboard and find seats.

When the late-comers were seated, the hostess entered and closed the door behind her. The motors on either side of the plane roared into life, and the lights above the door to the pilot’s cabin urged, No Smoking, Please. Fasten Seat Belts.

Dongan dropped into the aisle seat beside Muggsy and leaned back against the headrest as the motors reached for a new high in pitch.

Slowly the big plane taxied into the main runway, waited for a clearance, then thundered to a take-off. Dongan clenched his fists on the arms of his seat. The unlit cigar was still crushed between his teeth. I must have flown a million miles, he groaned, but every time on the take-off it’s like the first time. A thin film of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

Butterflies? The readhead grinned.

More like bats tonight.

The plane gained altitude, headed out over the Atlantic. After a time, the shore line started to recede behind them.

Muggsy turned her attention from the window to the man beside her. When does the action start?

Dongan was swabbing at his face with a balled-up handkerchief. Ten or fifteen minutes. As soon as we get set up.

A red light flickered to the right of the pilot’s cabin and the hostess and stewardess reappeared. There had been a slight change in costume. Now, instead of the severely tailored uniforms, the girls wore tights and peasant blouses that emphasized the fact that both had assets that stacked up with the First National Bank — and when they walked, judging by the sway, they were just as liquid.

They were followed by two men in tuxedos. At a signal, the passengers on the opposite side of the plane stood up, and the men went to work tearing down the seats on that side and stacking them in the rear. When that was finished, one of the men set up a bar at the front of the plane while his companion busied himself assembling a breakaway craps table.

Now I have seen everything, Muggsy grinned. This is really a floating crap game.

Dongan pulled the cigar from between his teeth and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. It cuts down the risk that took most of the profit from the old game. We don’t need any stick-up insurance here, and the vice squad would have to grow wings to crash this place for a raid.

They could be waiting for you when you set it down.

Where? Dongan’s lips peeled back from a perfect set of teeth. Only two people know where she’s going to set down. Even the pilot doesn’t know whether it’s La Guardia, Idlewild, or Newark until my partner Mike Davey gives him his instructions on the way in.

The stick man took his place at the head of the table, while the passengers started flocking toward it.

It seems a little expensive to me, Muggsy commented. Does it pay to be so elaborate?

Dongan replaced the cigar, chewed on it. For quotes?

The redhead shook her head. Just curious.

Sure it’s expensive. Everything’s expensive today, ain’t that right? It’s all relative. He considered for a moment. Take a setup in town. First you’ve got to get the O.K. to run. That means ice, Miss Kiely, plenty of ice from the inspector right down to the man on the beat. Last place Mike and me ran on the East Side cost me a grand a week just for the O.K. Here, I don’t need any O.K., I save that grand. I had to have two floor men at forty bucks per night, two lookouts at thirty a night. I had to have luggers to pull them in, outside men to check for plants and stiffs. I had to have a doorman I could trust. All that costs. My nut in that place was over six grand a week before I opened the door.

You don’t get planes for free, either.

Dongan shrugged. Here we gross ten times as much as in the old place. Besides, we know who’s coming on board, and we can pick and choose. We keep it down to about twenty-five, thirty players, and we have a two-grand minimum. That’s a sixty-thousand-dollar a night play, and that ain’t tin. A worried frown creased his forehead as his eyes followed the blonde actress on her way to the bar. It starts already. We’re not out twenty minutes and already that Lane dame hits the bar.

Muggsy watched the blonde as she passed the craps table, walking over to the bar. Laury Lane was tall; her thick blonde hair was piled on top of her head. She looked about twenty-eight from where the redhead sat, and appeared to have been sewn into the skintight white gown.

In rapid succession she downed two straight shots before the bartender caught Dongan’s cutoff signal. The blonde pushed the glass across the bar for a refill. When the bartender shook his head, she started to argue. The bartender leaned over, told her something in a low voice, shrugged his shoulders in response to her snapped reply. Her full lips were a thin, angry line as she left the bar and shouldered her way to a spot at the table.

Nothing but trouble, that dame, Dongan growled. He chewed on his cigar, ground the end into a soggy mass, dropped it to the floor. Look around, play if you want. We’ll forget the minimum in your case. I’ve got to get to work. He pulled himself out of his seat, walked over to the blonde hostess, and pointed to where Muggsy was sitting. In a moment, the hostess was over with a drink.

Mr. Dongan thought you’d like some refreshments.

Muggsy smiled her thanks. I guess a flight like this is different from your usual run?

The hostess shook her head. I’d never flown before I went to work for Mr. Dongan. I was in the chorus of the Gaieties. This sounded like a lot more fun so I took the job. She looked up at a snap of the bartender’s fingers. Pardon me, Miss Kiely. Somebody at the table wants a drink.

Muggsy got up from her seat and walked over to the table. She stood watching the play for a moment. Laury Lane was playing recklessly, taking it or laying it on every roll.

From close up, she was a few years older than she had appeared in the dim light at the bar. The bright table lights mercilessly revealed the fine network of lines under her eyes and the losing fight her make-up was waging with crow’s feet. Under the heavily painted outline, her lips drooped at the corners.

When the pile of chips in front of her had dwindled to nothing, the blonde pushed her way to the bar. She ordered a straight bourbon and gave the bartender an argument when he tried to talk her out of it. Finally, at a signal from Dongan, he filled her glass. She tossed it off and returned to the table.

Three times during the six-hour flight the pile of chips in front of her disappeared. On her last visit to the bar, she was met with a firm headshake from Lou Dongan. Muggsy could hear her voice complaining above the roar of the motors and the monotonous chant of If you don’t bet, you can’t win. If you don’t speculate, you can’t accumulate by the stick man. The blonde’s voice was becoming strident, shrill.

The players paid no attention to the byplay, huddled over the table anxious to complete their play before the plane started back in. The winners were feverishly determined to pyramid their winnings into a killing, the losers convinced that with enough time they could recoup their losses.

Dongan turned his back on the blonde and walked over to a tall, good-looking man huddled over the craps table. He whispered in the man’s ear, nodding toward the blonde. The big man walked over to Laury Lane, caught her by the arm, and propelled her toward the rest room in the rear.

Tanked to the eyeballs and in to us for better than ten grand, he growled to Muggsy. I wouldn’t take Al Murphy’s job of handling that witch if the vigorish was fifty per cent.

Muggsy raised her eyebrows. The which?

Vigorish. The house percentage. An agent takes a ten-per-cent commission, the house in a layout like this takes five per cent. It’s called the vigorish. Don’t ask me why.

Live and learn, I always say. With a five-per-cent cut and a minimum play of sixty thousand a night, I can see — Muggsy was cut off by the sound of scuffling from the rear of the plane. The tall man was trying to restrain the blonde, seemed to be urging her back into the rest room.

There she goes again, Dongan growled. She must have had her own bottle with her. Excuse me. His eyes flagged down the bartender; he led the way to the rear, where Murphy was struggling with the blonde.

Get your hands off me, Murph, she snarled. A fine agent you are. You let a tinhorn crook take me. She struggled vainly to dislodge his hand from her arm.

Leave her alone, Al, Dongan told him as he walked up. The agent nodded, dropped his hand from the girl’s arm.

Just like that. The blonde sneered. The tinhorn gives orders and you jump. Just a lousy, tinhorn crook and you jump.

Shut up and behave, Laury, Murph urged. He tried to push her into a seat. I didn’t know she had a jug with her, Lou. I’ll take care of her.

The blonde pushed off his hands. Go ahead, crawl. If that crook thinks I’m paying off on a rigged game —

You keep making with that mouth of yours, and I’ll fix it so it’s shut for a long time, Dongan told her in a low, hard voice. You think the game’s crooked, that’s your privilege. You came here, we didn’t send for you. But don’t get any ideas about welshing, baby. You wouldn’t live long enough for the money to do you any good.

Laury Lane pushed past her agent, swung at the gambler’s face, missed. Try and get it.

Dongan reached out, buried his hand in her hair, pulled her face close to his. His voice was low, the suavity peeled off it. Don’t ever try that again, lush. Nobody lifts a hand to Lou Dongan and walks away from it. The blonde started to say something, reconsidered. She licked at her lips, dropped her eyes from his.

Dongan pushed her back into a seat. Just put your money where your mouth is. He turned to Murphy, jabbed a finger into the big man’s chest. Don’t ever bring her into any place of mine again. Leave her here and you come up and settle her tab.

I haven’t got enough money to settle the tab, the blonde told him defiantly. Ask Murph. I’m broke.

Dongan’s eyes were cold, hard. He fixed them on Murphy. I don’t care how broke either one of you are. You brought her, Murph, and I’m holding you responsible for the pay-off.

The tall man looked worried. Will you take an I.O.U.? I’ll raise it for her. She has some stuff I can turn into cash if you’ll give me a week.

Dongan scowled. O.K. A week. Do us both a favor and get the dough to me by then. He nodded down to the girl. Take that jug away from her and strap her in that seat. I’ve taken all the grief I’m going to take from her tonight or any other night.

2.

Johnny Liddell sprawled in the leather overstuffed armchair, studying the man behind the desk. Al Murphy’s usually carefully combed hair showed the effects of repeated rakings with his fingers; a dark stubble of beard dulled the outline of his chin.

Miss Kiely filled you in on what happened last night, Liddell?

Liddell nodded. She told me Dongan gave your client a rough time and that you thought I could help. He dug a cigarette out of his pocket, hung it from the corner of his mouth. I didn’t see how.

Murphy raked his fingers through his hair again. She told you Laury gave Lou an I.O.U. for twelve grand?

Liddell touched a match to the cigarette, exhaled twin streams through his nostrils. She told me. So you send him a check for twelve grand, write it off as expenses.

The man behind the desk snorted. He pulled himself out of his chair and walked over to a window that overlooked the East River. It should only be that simple. He turned around, faced Liddell. She hasn’t got twelve grand. Neither have I.

Liddell scratched his head. That could be embarrassing, he conceded. But why go around dropping twelve grand that you don’t have? Especially to a character like Lou Dongan, who is notoriously narrow-minded about people owing him money?

You ever meet Laury?

Liddell shook his head.

No great loss, Murphy growled. But if you had, you wouldn’t have to ask why she does screwball things. If there’re two ways to do something, trust that dumb blonde to find the hard way. He walked back to the desk, rested one hip on the corner. It’s gotten worse since she’s been using Old Forester instead of Chanel Number Five as a personal scent. She’s washed up on the stage, and I’m not even sure I can get her another job.

What’s with her?

Drowning her sorrows. Her husband walked out on her. If she were drinking to celebrate, I could understand it. He shook his head. She’s actually broken up over it.

This husband. Anyone I know?

Edmund Wiley. He was her leading man a couple of seasons back. Hasn’t had to work ever since he hooked onto her as a meal ticket.

Sounds like a sterling character. But I still don’t see where I’m supposed to figure in this. If it’s just to keep Dongan from leaning on your client, I can assign a couple of men. But I might as well tell you that a goon like Lou has a long memory and plenty of time. It always catches up.

I know it. That’s why I’m so anxious to get the money to buy her off the hook.

Liddell squinted at the big man. "And how do

Reviews for Red Hot Ice

[davewilde-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Kane's Johnny Liddell series is one of the best of the numerous fifties- era private eye series. It's everything you could want in a PI novel, a tough, uncompromising detective who plays everything close to the vest, chorus girls, actresses, gambling syndicates, and a few honest cops who are frustrated no one - not even Johnny -- is sharing info with them. And, of course, you have Johnny's gal pal, Mugsy Kiely, the ace cub reporter for her father's paper and Pinky, Johnny's secretary.
Red Hot Ice is a story that begins with a gambling airplane and a world famous, blonde actress who drinks like she got poured out of the bottle. Gambling and booze of course lead to gambling debts and murder. And then there's the gigolo husband looking for a better touch and a missing fortune in diamonds and a pair of out of town hitmen. Kane has a great writing style and it makes for an easy and quick read. This is simply old fashioned classic PI stuff and it's as good and as action packed as anything you'll find.